Even in the silence, I know it’s a lie. Clara has become something else. Something I want… and something I’m terrified to lose.
Chapter Eleven - Clara
The storm descends in the middle of the night, rolling in from the hills with a violence that rattles every window in the mansion.
Rain lashes the glass, thunder splits the air, and for a long time I lie in bed listening to the world outside battering the old walls. The lights flicker once, twice, then die altogether, plunging the room into a darkness so complete I can’t see my own hands.
The silence that follows the crash of the power is deeper than anything I’ve ever known, almost suffocating in its weight.
I force myself out of bed, searching for the emergency kit beneath the bathroom sink. My fingers fumble over matches, then catch on the base of a heavy candle. The flame flares to life, throwing strange shadows across the ceiling and painting the gold wallpaper in rippling amber.
I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to calm my nerves. The darkness feels alive, crowding in from all sides, each rumble of thunder making the candle gutter. I count my breaths, try to focus on the things I can control: steady hands, steady thoughts. The old tricks barely work.
The house feels larger and emptier than ever, every noise magnified, every shadow stretched long.
Then I hear footsteps outside my door—heavy, deliberate, the scrape of boots across wood. My heart slams into my ribs.
I call out, voice trembling, “Who’s there?” The silence that answers is thick and cold. The handle rattles. My breath goes shallow.
I back away from the door, candle raised like a shield, pulse racing so loudly I think I might faint.
The door bursts open. For a split second, I see only a silhouette—broad shoulders, wild hair, rainwater running off the edge of a gun raised in both hands. My scream is sharp and helpless, the candle shaking in my grip. Lightning flashes, freezing the moment in a single, searing image.
“Clara?” Lukyan’s voice, rough with adrenaline, cuts through the roar of the storm. He lowers the gun, chest heaving, shoulders shaking with something between fury and fear. He’s soaked through, dark shirt plastered to his body, his face pale in the wavering candlelight.
I’m still shaking, the scream caught in my throat. For a moment we just stand there, both of us breathing hard, both too startled to speak.
He takes a step forward, weapon dropping to his side. “What are you doing?” His voice is sharp, every word charged with the tension that crackles between us. “Why did you scream?”
“You almost killed me,” I whisper, the accusation trembling in the air between us.
His jaw tenses, anger flickering across his features. “You shouldn’t be afraid of me,” he snaps, but his eyes betray something softer—a flicker of regret, of something he can’t name. “Others would’ve pulled the trigger.”
I swallow hard, the fear lingering in my blood even as the immediate danger fades. Lightning throws wild shadows around the room, illuminating the strain in his face, the haunted set of his mouth. The rain outside drums harder, thunder making the walls tremble.
The silence between us is different now. He looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, not just the prisoner, not just the threat, but a person with trembling hands and a voicethat nearly broke. The air feels electric, thick with everything we haven’t said, everything we’ve tried to deny.
He takes another step closer, close enough that I can see the drops of water clinging to his hair, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes darken as he searches my face.
My candle wavers, light brushing his cheekbones, turning his features into something sharp and almost beautiful. He reaches out, hand unsteady, and brushes a strand of damp hair from my cheek.
The gesture is almost tender, almost cruel. It makes my breath catch, makes the anger and the fear inside me tangle with something else—something hotter, something dangerous.
His fingers linger for a second too long. My skin burns where he touches me. I can’t pull away. I don’t want to. I can feel the heat rolling off him, see the hunger flickering in his gaze, the torment he’s barely holding back.
Outside, thunder crashes again, so loud the floor vibrates. The moment stretches, suspended on the knife-edge of something we both know we shouldn’t want. My heart races, blood roaring in my ears.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His hand falls, but the space between us stays charged, every breath, every heartbeat thick with possibility: hate, fascination, hunger. We are standing at the edge of something neither of us can name.
For the first time, I wonder if the storm outside is safer than what’s about to happen in this room.
Thunder crashes so violently that the windows rattle in their frames. I flinch despite myself, candle jumping in my grip. The next moment, my free hand shoots out, grabbing Lukyan’s arm for balance. It’s instinctive, desperate for something solid to anchor me in the chaos.
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his other hand rises—hesitant, almost gentle—and finds my waist, steadying me as the world shakes. His palm is warm, the pressure light but unyielding, and suddenly it feels like there’s nothing in existence but us and the storm. The sound of rain pounding the roof blurs into the background, replaced by the ragged hush of our breathing, the faint scent of damp earth clinging to his clothes.
My fingers tighten on his arm before I realize what I’m doing. There’s a wildness in his eyes now, something old and unguarded. His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t let go. The candlelight flickers across his face, making the shadows dance along the sharp planes of his cheeks, the hard line of his mouth. The air is thick with the charge of everything we’ve been holding back.
We’re close, closer than we’ve ever been. I can feel his breath on my lips, the subtle tremor that runs through him as his gaze drops to my mouth.
